


Shadows

by BrosleCub12



Series: Going Anywhere [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bullying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Abuse, F/M, Female John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Original Character(s), Oxford, POV Sherlock Holmes, Police Procedural, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective Watson, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Teen Joan, Teen Sherlock, The non-con is not between Sherlock and Joan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: What he wants, he realises, is to not be here. To be away, right away from Oxford and everything he saw tonight; to be in London, to be in a softly-lit room with mountains of medical books and chocolate carelessly scattered on the sheets; with soft eyes and a quirky grin that can hold its own. He wants Joan. He wants Joan.





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** This fic contains mentions of drug abuse and includes a scene of sexual assault that some readers may find upsetting or triggering. **None of this takes place between Sherlock and Joan.** I can assure you of a loving and secure relationship between our two main characters; however, if you would like a more detailed description before you proceed, please scroll down to the bottom for more information.
> 
> For those who have just joined us; it is the academic year 2011/2012. Sherlock Holmes is an Oxford student who shares a close bond with a genderswapped John Watson, who studies at Kings' College in London. This is a short sequel to a story I started seven years ago, and finally finished earlier this year. It's been on my computer for a very long time and has finally been cleaned up. Constructive criticism is welcomed.
> 
> As per, I don't own Sherlock, which is the property of the BBC, but I enjoy writing this universe way too much.

* * *

 

The party is at a house just five minutes from Oxford campus. Sherlock doesn’t particularly want to go, but he needs to – there’s talk of a date-rape drug going around and he’s heard from well-paid sources that the person behind it will be here tonight (information given over the phone, the payments made through the post, honouring the promise he made to Joan that he wouldn’t see them in person). He doesn’t make a particular effort to dress up, either – there’s no-one he wants to impress and he’s certainly not bringing a date; this is work, not pleasure. And anyway, Joan couldn’t make it tonight.

(He was going to bring Joan, was absolutely set on it, was going to pay her train-fare to Oxford just to stop her protesting – as she often does, in her many attempts at belt-tightening – that she didn’t have enough money for the journey. Perhaps he would have taken her out to dinner as well, somewhere nice – but this week has been a particularly trying one for her and something about the tone of her voice on the phone – coursework, approaching exams, hadn’t slept for eighteen hours – made him stop, bite the words of ‘We’re going to a party,’ back).

No-one greets him as he steps through the open back-door (he wonders about telling them that their neighbours are kleptomaniacs who will take full advantage of that warm and stupid welcome at some point but decides against it; if they’re idiotic enough to leave the door open to greet every Tom, Dave and Chris inside, then that’s their look-out). More than a few people glance his way as he glides in (casual curiosity or possibly cautiousness; he doesn’t know, or care) but no-one approaches him and for that, he’s glad. He recognises some of them, of course; there have been other drunken nights when he’s been walking through town, or through campus on the weekend, coming back from the library or the labs and they’ve drunkenly lurched at him, jeered at him to _just come out just once, you frigid bastard!,_ even burred snatches of songs, shouting and shrieking it up to the sky, alcohol somehow convincing them he can’t hear them even though he’s standing just a few feet away _(‘…too cold for you to snog him, too smart for you to shag him, who’s that freak, who’s that freak…’)_

He clears his throat, blinks that away, makes a mental note to delete it, again. Most people leave him alone, now.

It’s been a while, he realises, as he wends his way through the crowd, hands in pockets, since he was at any sort of gathering around here, spending most of his time now in London, at Joan’s place or on-campus itself or the restaurants scattered around the area. London is more interesting than Oxford, which holds, for Sherlock, the frustrating feeling of being on the edge of the world with its stone cloisters and calm, quiet rivers. Hateful. London has a beating heart of crowds, stuffed full of potential criminals, the hustle and bustle of mysteries worth solving and _Joan._

For now, though: focus. Shift through this idiotic mass of bodies and be on the lookout.

That girl: broken heels, needs her eyes checked, keeps sleeping around behind her boyfriend’s back, how deeply disorganised. Bored, obviously, clearly just trying to figure out what to do with her life.

That boy: engaged to his girlfriend there, but having a tumultuous affair with his male flatmate, had sex with him before he came out tonight; clearly confused about his sexuality and most likely proposed to prove a point to himself, should probably tell the bride before the wedding. Sherlock would suggest it himself in passing but previous experience tells him he’ll have a black eye to show for his efforts and Joan isn’t here to provide medical care this time.

With that thought, he steps out into the dimly-lit garden where bodies are huddled together over cigarettes, although Sherlock knows better than to ask for one off this lot. He inhales the smoke, a welcome distraction, sharpens his senses and he breathes it out, glances to his left at a girl in ridiculous heels; she’s also training in medicine, nowhere as good as Joan, though, not if she keeps… not if…

Not if she…

… This particular girl, having caught him looking, has stepped towards him and extended a hand; a hand that is currently holding a little bag containing something all-too-familiar, unseen among the strobe lights and the dark and sweat of the laughing, gathered bodies and for a moment, everything stops.

 _Oh,_ Sherlock thinks; feels the old jolt of not-quite-suppressed longings flare up inside him. _Oh, hello._

He could – oh, he could. Plenty of rooms in this house, he could sneak in somewhere and just do this and no-one would care, no-one ever does, and there’s no-one here to stop him, is there, so he could, he _could._

He promised Joan.

But Joan isn’t here to put an arm around him and guide him away (ground him).

He promised.

He’s seeing Joan tomorrow; he can easily get it out of his system before then, he’s used to it, isn’t he, he’s had experience, he can adapt quickly, of course he can, he can hide the signs, the evidence, even from her, even with her impressive medical skills, of course he can. She wants to take him out tomorrow, mentioned the London Dungeons with a quirky smile (didn’t see it, but he could feel it in her tone of voice over the phone). He knows she wants an afternoon off from her work and she thought he might like it and had asked him to come along…

…and he would spend the whole day hiding his face from her, hiding what he did.

_Just this once._

He has the money, he has the means…

…but he _promised._

And the last time he nearly did this, Joan got hurt.

The memory of Joan, a gun held to her temple, a syringe extended towards him, for a moment their only exit route fills his vision, fills it fast and he quickly yanks his arm backwards – didn’t even realise he was reaching out – and backs away, shakes his head, frantically, furiously, _go away, go away._ The girl blinks, raises her eyebrow and then turns away with a shrug. She’ll give it to someone else – let her give it to someone else, anyone, so Sherlock can’t use it, let it go to someone else who doesn’t have a brain like his, who doesn’t have a Joan. _Let it go, let it go, NOW._

He turns on his heel and runs, blind back into the house, shoving past indignant partygoers until he reaches the stairs; _go somewhere quiet, regroup, recover._ It’s still early in the evening – most people are drinking and dancing, no-one has reached the apparently socially mandatory ‘cups of tea and talks about life’ bit yet and he heads upwards and away from what he almost just did.

Compared to the heat and light and press of bodies down below, it’s cooler and quieter up here – less data without the people, but he can make a few deductions about whoever owns the place (one of Seb Wilkes’ friends, he thinks, eyeing a Van Gough on the wall, wants someone to think they’re arty so they can get in their boxers/knickers, delete as appropriate). Leans against the wall, breathes in _– 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 –_ breathes out against the tight vice suddenly squeezing his chest from the inside. 

 _Good man,_ Joan might say, were she standing beside him as unshakeable as a pillar, a hand on his shoulder maybe, or his chest, inhale, exhale. _Keep doing that, Sherlock; you’re fine. It’s all fine._ The sound of her voice, the authority of the Doctor Watson she’ll become, however imagined in that moment, fills Sherlock’s mind like clean water, the casual lulls of her accent the calm of the storm and Sherlock releases another breath, slower now, quieter; his chest loosens like an unlocked bolt. 

Finally, he raises his head from the wall and looks up and down the hallway, acknowledging the fact that if someone sees him in this state, it’ll be all over Oxford like wildfire. He doesn’t care of course, shouldn’t care, but the concept of all these money- and sex-obsessed idiots murmuring behind hands to each other about the local freak having a panic-attack at a party could, in the wrong hands, be considered a weapon; where there’s an opportunity to get under his skin, there may well be tiresome shouting in his ear, unimaginative taunts and even unappreciated, regrettable attempts to recreate the incident. Everyone already knows he’s a habitual user; it wouldn’t do to add this to the repertoire.

There’s no-one around, though and Sherlock hates himself for how glad he feels about that. 

It’s possible, he reflects with a very determined push away from the wall, that he might find something up here. The people who live here may be moronic and by default not capable – or malicious – enough of slipping something into someone’s drink, but he might as well have a look around, it’ll kill time (and take his mind off the substances in the hands of the people below).

He’ll stay a bit longer, investigate a bit further, maybe ask a few questions to unsuspecting individuals and then – then he’ll go. He’ll text Joan and they’ll talk; about the irritating lab assistant who shoplifts for kicks, about Sebastian Wilkes’ inability to do his own coursework, their next meal at Angelo’s or another trip to the cinema, Joan’s upcoming discussion on thyroid disorders – anything, so long as it’s with Joan.

He pokes his head into one room, where all the guests’ coats are piled up on the bed, with some fallen onto the floor and trampled underfoot. Rolling his eyes, he tucks his beloved Belstaff around him protectively, goes to the next door. Behind this one is another bedroom, covered with posters, a small plant on the windowsill and against the far wall, a large bed on which a couple are currently copulating.

Wait:

The boy on top (brown curls, short-sleeved t-shirt), thrusting clumsily, jeans wrenched down to thighs, panting, face contorted – a telltale scratch on one arm, holding down – pinning down – the other person’s hands.

The girl beneath him (blonde, long skirt that’s currently tugged up): both shoes still on and her face, turned away towards the door – crumpled and tear-stained, eyes squeezed shut, a sob on her lips.

_Non-consensual._

‘Excuse me,’ Sherlock declares, loudly, deliberately intrusive.

The boy glances up, breathing ragged, clocks his presence in the room and swears – ‘What the fuck?’ – and in one swift movement, Sherlock is striding across even as the boy roughly rises; the girl gives a whimper and curls over onto her side.

Sherlock can’t help but sneer in the face of the boy’s slur of, ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ easily ducking the clumsy blow of knuckles that’s directed right at his face, instead bringing both his hands up in a wide circle to hit both sides of the head, discombobulating the idiot, before striking forwards in a prompt headbutt. It hurts a little but it’s brisk and quick enough to knock the boy out cold for a good five minutes or so and Sherlock lets him fall, the thump probably not loud enough to alert the partygoers below. Simple.

And then – then there’s the girl.

She’s curled up on her side still – a defensive manoeuvre, crying into her hands, hiding herself from view. Sherlock opens his mouth to tell her that his friend is a medic, before he remembers: Joan isn’t here to administer medical help and gentle care. Joan is miles away in London and the knowledge freezes him for a single second.

A single second in which the girl’s sobs fill the room – it’s possible that she hasn’t fully registered his presence – and Sherlock forces himself to move forwards, to think: _what would Joan do?_

Look non-threatening, for a start, he decides – Joan can square up to anyone who deserves it, stare them down in a matter of moments, a walking promise of retaliation. She’s even better, though, at being the exact opposite to those who need it and so Sherlock kneels by the bed, by the girl’s side. She is, he realises with a peculiar jolt, quite young, only seventeen, eighteen at an absolute push, not much younger than he is and he doesn’t recognise her from the usual university crowd. Visiting Oxford, he realises, invited here by a friend who’s got themselves caught up in the crowd down below. A family member would never be so lax.

‘It’s alright,’ he tries, because he feels that’s what Joan would start with, assurance and attempts at calm. ‘It’s alright, now.’

The girl says nothing, simply curls up tighter; shock, Sherlock realises, she hasn’t quite grasped what’s just happened and so he tries again.  

‘He’s not going to touch you anymore,’ he says, trying to keep his voice soft in the way Joan would, ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t. It’ll be alright,’ he repeats, lamely and curses himself. An abominable effort – he could do better. Joan would do better.

It takes a moment but finally the girl’s hands shake away from her eyes, revealing the mess of makeup and tears streaking her face. She blinks, her pupils shifting around in their sockets and she lifts her head just slightly to look at the motionless boy – an extremely brave thing to do, considering what he’s just done to her – and then her face completely crumples, fist covering her mouth, head shaking, as if holding back a scream. Sherlock steps sideways, placing himself between her and the unconscious imbecile on the floor.

‘If he comes to, I’ll knock him out again,’ he promises her. ‘Do you… can you sit up or would you prefer to just stay still?’ She won’t be able to move around too much. of course, partly due to shockwaves and partly because she’s likely to be extremely sore in the places where the boy has hurt her. Something like a weak mumble slips through the girl’s lips, not really a proper answer to the question, but it’s all perfectly understandable.

‘Alright. Very good,’ Sherlock encourages her all the same, glancing down at her skirt, still bunched up high around her legs; she probably hasn’t registered that yet and he reaches out a hand to tug it back down into place for her, to preserve her modesty – but the girl twitches, whimpers and draws herself up tighter. Sherlock is left cursing himself: such a rudimentary error. It’s not one that Joan would have made.

‘Sorry,’ Sherlock says, cursing himself at how badly he’s doing; should have understood that, should have known. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ For all she knows, he could be another threat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise you. You’re safe.’

He gives her a moment, backs away to check on her attacker: breathing, but still thankfully dead to the world and _wait a moment…_ His eyes are drawn to the slight bulk in his left pocket, tugs it out: a bottle of suspicious substance, one that Sherlock recognises only too well.

Ah… so this happens to be their provider, or one of them. Didn’t need to use it in this case, he considers grimly, his own body-strength proved to be more than enough. But he was ready to give it to someone else; ready to be an accessory. The police are going to have a field-day with this.

He almost smirks and then glances at the girl; wipes the threatening smile off his face. _Bit not good,_ as Joan would say. No, obviously not.

‘I’m going to call an ambulance,’ he tells her, pulling out his phone, ‘for you, obviously, not for him. I need to call the police as well, if that’s alright with you?’ He deliberately makes it sound like a question, putting some control back into her hands, raising his eyebrows towards her and the girl nods, a single twitch of the head. ‘Okay, then that’s what we’ll do.’

He finds a smile for her – little comfort or consolation, but it feels important to do it – and dials 999 (would normally call the local police station first, he’s well-known to them there, courtesy of being thrown in the cells a time or two, but medical care is more important on this occasion), but then the girl whimpers, out of nowhere, ‘I’m sorry.’

Sherlock blinks; stills, as she adds, voice croaking, ‘W-we were just – m-messing around – and he – he didn’t _stop._ I tried...’ Her voice breaks off, shattering. ‘He wouldn’t _stop.’_

Carefully, slowly, Sherlock lowers himself to the floor in front of the bed. When he speaks, he makes a real effort to keep his voice calm, the way that Joan would. _Don’t frighten her, again._

‘You have _nothing_ to be sorry for,’ he tells her, because she hasn’t. ‘He shouldn’t have done that if you didn’t want him to. It’s not your fault.’

With that, he raises the phone to his ear and is stupidly relieved when the operator picks up. Sherlock briskly orders an ambulance and the police, gives the address and as he hangs up, some small corner of his mind registers the fact that the guests downstairs are not going to be too happy about this, but then they have plenty of other nights to drink themselves stupid. Anyway, he really doesn’t care.   

‘They’re coming,’ he tells the girl, ‘they’ll look after you. Would you like me to wait with you?’

‘P-please,’ she stutters out and then her whole face collapses and she cries and cries into her hands. Sherlock sits on the floor next to her and simply waits in company with the sounds of her sobs and the thump of the speakers beating through the floor, one eye on the unconscious hoodlum, until the familiar sirens approach and lights flash through the window like a beacon.

*

At any rate, the partygoers _aren’t_ happy. One or two of them even glare across at Sherlock as they’re turned out of the house, as though it’s somehow _his_ fault one of their peers couldn’t keep his trousers on, couldn’t understand the simple word ‘no’ and he avoids their eyes, smoking heavily on a cigarette.

The local DI, Belson, is eyeing him – he’s turned up personally, having dealt with Sherlock before, having processed him a time or two – even as he’s standing back to make way for the cuffed assailant (sporting a hugely satisfying bruise on the side of his head, nose streaming blood and mouthing off left, right and centre) to be put in the back of his car. He’s struggling against the officer handling him, all brawn and no brain and Sherlock hides a humourless smirk in his cigarette as he’s put into the backseat and driven away.

Shortly after, the young girl is brought out – such a girl, Sherlock thinks, short and small, so small – shock blanket around her shoulders, in the reassuring presence of a female paramedic and Sherlock again finds himself wishing that Joan were here.

‘Thankyou,’ the girl mouths as she’s walked past him; her face is tinted blue by the sirens. Sherlock watches her being taken into the ambulance and exhales smoke, long and low as Belson wanders across, one of the few uniforms now remaining as he eyes Sherlock up and down.

‘Well,’ he says; Sherlock looks back at him silently over a fresh drag before pointedly exhaling smoke in the other direction. He knows what’s coming, knows the local Oxford constabulary don’t think anymore of him than he does of them and he huffs, prepares himself a fresh rebuke; for doing the police’s job for them, for being violent, anything they can use against him, simply because everyone around here seems to like picking holes in what he does, what he sees, even if it’s the truth.

‘You alright, lad?’ Belson’s voice is unexpectedly warm, then, and Sherlock looks back at him in open surprise. He covers it by taking another puff of his cigarette.

‘Fine,’ he replies; he spies an odd, rueful kind of smile coming over Belson’s face; the most sympathetic he’s ever seen it. Sherlock stamps out his cigarette just to avoid looking at him and he can just sense Belson physically restraining himself from a lecture and an on-the-spot litter fine.

‘Was wondering if you’d come down to the station and give us a statement,’ is what he says instead; Sherlock glances at the ambulance again, catching sight of the girl inside, huddled in her blanket, wiping her face with the fabric.

‘Fine,’ he says again. He’ll do this by the book, for once.

So, he goes with Belson, climbs into the other patrol car under the judging eyes of the lingering party-guests who probably think he’s been arrested too. Naturally: everything that happens around here somehow turns out to be Sherlock’s fault, just because he’s the first one to simply see it.

At the police station, he answers questions, writes down everything, word for word, signs it, hands it over and Belson accepts it, looks at him for a long minute.

‘You know, I can call someone,’ he says, ‘your parents, maybe. Or your brother. If you want.’

Sherlock looks up at him, tapping a finger against the table; longs for another cigarette, knows Belson has them, but it’s one of those law things now, isn’t it, he heard it somewhere, he thinks Joan might have told him.

What he wants, he realises, is to not be here. To be away, right away from Oxford and everything he saw tonight; to be in London, to be in a softly-lit room with mountains of medical books and chocolate carelessly scattered on the sheets; with soft eyes and a quirky grin that can hold its own. He wants Joan. He wants Joan.

‘Are you going to charge me with anything?’

Belson smiles – the first genuine smile he’s ever given Sherlock – and shakes his head. ‘Not this time, Sherlock. Not tonight.’

Sherlock hums his gratitude, checks his watch; it’s not quite eleven yet, if he’s quick... Clearing his throat, he turns back to Belson.

‘Could I possibly get a lift to the station? Please?’

*

He manages to catch the late train to London Bridge, full of whooping and cheering, drunken idiots going home or to get even more wasted in a new location and he curls up next to a window behind the luggage rack, his coat like a shield. Mycroft tries to call him; Sherlock cuts the call (he can’t, he just can’t). Barely a moment later, the phone buzzes with a text.

 _Are you alright? M._ Concerned, with an effort to be consoling. Sherlock stares at it for a moment and then puts the phone away, watching rain battering down on the window as the train pulls out of the station.

It’s cleared up by the time he makes it to London Bridge and it’s just a quick stroll to Joan’s flat; London is still busy, and no-one bothers him on his walk. When he gets to Joan’s front door he fumbles around for the spare key she gave him after he merrily picked the lock that one time and she nearly decapitated him in the hallway with a frying pan before realising he wasn’t an intruder, _you git, you nearly gave me a sodding heart attack,_ and then hugging him tightly anyway.

(He’d realised that had been a bit not good and promised not to do it again).

Joan’s flat is swathed in darkness and Sherlock reaches out for the lamp by the telephone, clicks it on, pulling off his scarf and checking the doors to Dana and Mary’s rooms; both shut, likely locked as their coats aren’t on the hook and their shoes are not in the small pile they built up for themselves.

Joan’s are, though.

Stepping through quietly, Sherlock checks the clock on the wall. He doesn’t know if Joan will be awake; she’s both a late-nighter and an early bird when the mood takes her, who lives on tea and chocolate and the occasional coffee, trying to get her work done, little time to disguise the often-present bags under her eyes. (It doesn’t stop her smiling at him, though).

No sound of movement in the flat; no sign of Joan coming through to check who’s entered – a habit that she’s had ever since her father died – so perhaps she’s gone to bed. It _is_ Friday night, after all; a weekend is the only time Joan can get any real sleep – and he didn’t actually tell her he was coming, anyway.

…Maybe, given the lateness of the hour, he’s made the wrong choice coming here. Maybe he should turn around and go back to Oxford; find a night-bus, perhaps, or possibly engage one of his brother’s convenient, ever-expanding network of loyal drivers. Maybe he could go around to Mrs Hudson’s – he has a key to her place too, knows her husband isn’t home, that it’s safe enough; she’s mainly based in London now, taking more and more time away from the mess that’s been her life in Florida. Or maybe he could just wander around the city; he’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep any time soon, anyway. 

…Perhaps he should just check on Joan first, though.

Slowly, quietly, he treads across the lounge – avoiding the creaky floorboards under the carpet with some difficulty – towards the long but narrow corridor containing both the flat toilet at the far end and Joan’s bedroom. Dim light greets him through her door, open _just_ ajar; he steps around and peers inside.

Joan is lying across her bed duvet, still fully-dressed, illuminated by the bedside lamp, eyes closed with a book lying open across her stomach. Despite himself, Sherlock’s pupils fly to her midsection, looking for the slight, steady rise and fall of her breathing, which he quickly finds; listens to the small, humming snore that accompanies it and then looks around the room. Much the same as it was yesterday; neat enough but with papers scattered over the desk, over Joan’s laptop; medical handbooks crammed into the long bookshelf above the desk; laundry-hamper, stuffed full; all of Joan’s photos and family medals still up on the wall, intact; window firmly sealed. The hub of Joan’s life; Sherlock wants to shut the door and breathe it all in, the warm clutter of it, the dust-motes floating and dancing under the light of Joan’s trusty second-hand lamp.

He looks back down at Joan, who hasn’t stirred, doesn’t realise he’s here; spots a small strand of her hair that’s slipped down to curl over her eyes. Uncomfortable, annoying, he knows that from personal experience, his own hair grew rather long in rehab and so he reaches out to tuck it back –

Wait. Is he allowed to do that? Is it alright to touch when the other person isn’t aware? Sherlock can’t deny he likes Joan’s hair, the soft, dusky blonde of it, the way he can rest his cheek against it when they’re embracing. But Joan is always awake for that and a girl was touched tonight in a way that she simply didn’t want to be touched and there was no-one there to heed her word of ‘no.’ Sherlock pauses, his hand wavers stupidly and then he withdraws it, puts it in his pocket, looks around again; treads the floor carefully, softly. Considers his options as he stares at Joan.

He _really_ shouldn’t be here. The chances Joan gets to sleep are few and far between during the week; she’s not like him (although, admittedly, his eyelids are now starting to droop, just a little) and, obviously, she needs rest. He recognises it’s odd, what he’s doing, pacing around Joan’s room while she’s unaware, knows it’s not what ‘normal’ people do. _Freak,_ Seb Wilkes’ crowd mutter in his head, all jeering eyes and pointed fingers. _Stalking weirdo._

And then, as though she can somehow hear him thinking, Joan stirs, a small groan escaping her lips and Sherlock freezes. Out of nowhere, in the depths of his memory, he’s reminded of one of those animated films he saw as a child (possibly Disney; very early animation – strange, he thought he’d deleted the details); the scene where the sleeping princess stirs and the funny little men watching her sleep (dwarves? Elves? Goblins?) stupidly race around the room for a hiding place, before fleeing to duck behind the foot of the bed.

Can’t very well do that here; for one thing, Joan’s bed is basic, couldn’t hide down behind there and unlike most people, she’s not stupid. Sherlock watches as she rouses, eyes slipping open and he counts how many seconds it takes for her to register another presence in the room (two); when she does, she gives the smallest start, an ‘Oh,’ falling from her mouth at the sight of him and something about it alarms him, too, as his body leaps to attention.

‘Sorry,’ he manages, holding out a palm the same way she does when she’s trying to calm a situation, one of her subtle ‘stay’ messages; only he makes it look a spread-eagled mess. ‘It’s alright, I’m sorry, Joan.’

Joan blinks, sits up. ‘Sherlock.’ She says his name, reassuringly so, like a statement, rather than a question. 

‘Hello,’ Sherlock offers with a wave, keeping a distance between himself and the bed. ‘How are you?’

‘When’d you get here?’ Joan asks, rubbing at her eyes and blinking up at him, ‘I didn’t even hear you come in.’

 _Of course not,_ Sherlock wants to say, _you were asleep and I – I didn’t tell you because I just wanted to see you,_ but somehow, the words don’t come. She doesn’t seem angry, just startled and not even too much. 

‘Sorry,’ he says honestly, because he is. ‘Are you alright?’ Realising the absurdity of the question too late – of course she’s alright, she’s right there in front of him, he amends, ‘Have you had a nice evening?’ and _then_ wonders if he’s had an aneurysm recently that he’s managed to somehow delete from his memory; Joan’s raised eyebrow doesn’t seem very promising.

‘Been reading, mostly,’ she murmurs and then she frowns at him; tilting her head to the side as she looks up at him. ‘Sherlock, I thought…’ She pauses; squints. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Of course there’s nothing. Sherlock is fine; more importantly, Joan is fine. It’s all fine, to borrow a phrase from the medic staring up at him as though he’s just merrily swallowed a goldfish whole. ‘Sorry I’ve disturbed you.’ And he is, because medical students need their sleep, because most of them don’t have teenage sociopaths barging into their room in the middle of the night. Joan is _safe,_ that’s all that matters.

And Sherlock really, really needs to leave, to say goodbye, to quash the voices that sound too much like bloody Mycroft of all people now, telling him he’s making a fool of himself with this, that this caring and disturbing doctors-to-be is not an advantage, _etcetera, etcetera_ and he puts his coat collar back up, anything physical to get him back out of the front door.

‘No, you’re not,’ Joan says, cutting through everything going on inside his head, giving him a Look (capitalised for a reason, because it’s that Look that quietly, sternly affirms her own family’s military history as well as the simple fact that Joan Watson does not and will not tolerate complete bollocks). ‘You’re not sorry, because you’re looking aggravated, Sherlock, you’re twitching all over the place, you can’t stand still.’

Sherlock swallows at that, at the memory of it, the near-temptation and Joan’s eyes narrow further before she surges to her feet.

‘Yeah, you’re shaking,’ she comments, stepping towards him.

‘No, I’m not,’ he manages because he’s not, is he, he would know if he were. Joan says nothing, simply takes his hand in hers and holds it up in front of his eyes.

Alright then, he’s shaking. Joan returns the hand to rest by his hip – the slowness and care in which she does so startles something in him – and folds her arms.

‘Have you taken something?’ she asks quietly, eyes level with his and he shakes her head; this, at least – despite the _stab_ in his gut, because he came so close, he wanted to, he didn’t, but he _could have_ – is not a lie.

‘No,’ he promises, ‘no, Joan, I haven’t.’ He watches her look him up and down; leans forward to squint into his eyes, looking for the telltale signs, the giveaways, face set in concentration. (She really _will_ make a very good doctor).

‘Okay,’ she drops back, raises her head in clearly-cautious agreement – she believes him, at least for now. ‘Tea?’

Sherlock needs to go. He needs to get to Mrs Hudson’s and get on her sofa for the night. He needs to leave Joan alone every now and then so she can sleep and complete her work; boring things to Sherlock, but absolutely necessary for Joan, for the doctor she’s going to become. He needs to calm the bloody hell down and just accept that these things happen, that people are idiots who do appalling things. 

‘...Alright, then.’

*

Over tea, he tells Joan everything.

Maybe once, he might have kept the little… hiccup about the drugs out of it; what Joan doesn’t know can’t hurt her, after all and it’s not as if he did anything, in the end. (Even if his hand reached out, even if he was so close to - ) Plus, he doesn’t want to look into Joan’s face and see all of that reflected back at him from Joan’s steady, dark eyes: the heavy sadness of his mother, the open disappointment of Mycroft and the contempt of a dozen extended relatives whom he barely speaks to (but all of whom suddenly took an interest when Sherlock ended up in hospital), staring silently back at him as ‘the problem child,’ the ‘black sheep.’ The junkie, the bad boy, the addict. Bad enough to see it in _their_ faces – unacceptable to see it in Joan’s.

But in this case, honesty is the best policy; once he’s started, he finds he can’t quite leave anything out and when it comes down to it, he can’t lie, not to Joan. Once the words leave his mouth, _I wanted to,_ he’d do anything to take them back in the face of the silence that follows but Joan just hums carefully into it, breaks off a generous piece of chocolate and puts it into his hands.

‘You definitely didn’t take it?’ she asks finally, raising her eyebrows, watching him munch quietly, more to avoid her eyes than anything else, ‘the drug, I mean?’  

Sherlock shakes his head, his ‘No,’ honest and full, falling heavy from his mouth.

‘Promise.’ He meets her eyes, lets her see it, that he was tempted, so _very_ tempted and it’s all he can give, the absolute ragged best that he can offer in that moment. But Joan smiles, nods, and just places a hand on his arm, rubs his shoulder softly and it’s a small shock, but a welcoming one: she can see the evidence in his eyes, the way he holds himself, the eloquence of his speech. She’s a good medic, and she believes him.

‘Well done,’ she commends and before Sherlock can even gather his thoughts for a response to _that,_ she sobers and asks quietly, ‘So, what’s the problem?’

He tells her. Finds the words that have been rattling around his brain since he left Oxford and lets them out, one by one, the whole terrible _everything_ of it, the young, frightened girl, the idiotic boy and what happened, what he did. Joan listens, eyes still as undisturbed water, face carefully blank as he lets it out, spills it like it’s a drug of its own that’s been slowing him down, poisoning him from the inside and Joan is the only one with the antidote to make it better.

‘You stopped him?’ she repeats; the corner of her mouth quirks up, but the rest of her face remains impassive. Sherlock can only nod; words, for a moment, seem almost impossible after all that, after all that he’s let loose to her. ‘So, where’s the girl now?’

‘Hospital,’ he says shortly, says it around a swallow. They’ll be caring for her; asking her questions; putting her through tests. He hopes that the nurses are patient.

‘Are _you_ alright?’ Joan asks, her expression suddenly creasing into a frown and why, _why_ does everyone keep asking him that? But Joan seems worried - worried like she so often seems to be when she thinks he’s not sleeping enough or eating enough or just being too quiet. Normally, it’s because he’s forgotten to, or an experiment distracted him or the glint of Joan’s eyes, and the way the wind and sun catch her hair like a fluttering candle, have proven to be more than enough to silence the noise inside Sherlock’s head. 

‘He hurt her, Joan,’ he murmurs. ‘She was crying. He was hurting her and she was crying.’ It’s the first time in his life he’s seen something like this happen for himself, seen the process, seen the careless, selfish look on the attacker’s face; that whole senseless sense of simply not caring what their actions were doing to the other person, so long as they got what they wanted. How incredibly arrogant and selfish. How disgustingly bizarre.

‘People do bad things, Sherlock,’ Joan murmurs and he knows that she knows that they’re both thinking of guns, discarded syringes, bodies on the pavement. ‘They want something, sometimes and they don’t care what they’ll have to do to get it.’

She worries the bedclothes, looking – not _unhappy_ exactly, but perhaps quietly angry at the prospect, her mind clearly gone to the girl in solidarity; her eyes are steely, her mouth tight and Sherlock privately considers that perhaps it’s a good job he didn’t bring her to the party after all.

‘But you,’ Joan adds then, not so much snapping them both out of the oppressing silence as punching a hole through it, ‘You stopped him. And now she’s with people who can look after her and get her home. That’s because of you, Sherlock,’ she points a finger at him; a smile budding over her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes, a sudden bloom of pride. ‘You ran away from the drugs and you helped someone else.’ She squeezes his elbow. ‘You’re the _good,_ here.’

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say; can’t find the response he knows is rattling around in his head somewhere but doesn’t seem to want to reach his tongue. Joan leans forward, placing a careful kiss to the corner of his mouth and not for the first time Sherlock is left feeling as though there’s a thousand undercurrents dancing up and down his spine and kisses back, quickly, clumsily. Joan doesn’t seem to mind, though; just raises a hand and pushes back his hair on one side, her palm a welcome weight against his scalp and just _looks_ at him. It should feel exposing, but her gaze is just gentle.

‘Would you like to lie down for a bit?’ she asks and Sherlock nods; his head is heavy, sore with his own thoughts and he would, in all honestly, like that very much. ‘Okay, then. C’mere.’

She wriggles down onto the bed and Sherlock follows her lead; once he’s comfortable beside her, Joan wraps her arms around him – circling, but not trapping. Sherlock gives up searching for the right words, lets them scatter away and instead presses his forehead against Joan’s sleeve, his eyes buried in the fabric of her shirt.

*

He spends the rest of the night with his head lolling on her shoulder (her unscarred one; Joan insists it doesn’t hurt, but still, not even _Sherlock_ is that unchivalrous); Joan’s body is made up of curve and muscle, broad as a pillow. His eyes keep flickering out of focus, and it takes an embarrassingly long time to realise he’s falling asleep on her while she carries on with her reading. Joan, though, doesn’t seem hugely concerned by this, simply presses a gentle kiss to his curls. Sherlock shifts comfortably, very aware of the ticking of the clock – but the ambience of Joan’s room is starting to sink into his bones like a rum-soaked cake, its very own cave of wonders with the stone rolled, almost securely, across the entrance.

 _Almost._ Mycroft keeps attempting to call him, which irks him and on the third try, Joan takes the call, one hand on Sherlock's back as she holds it to her ear.

‘Hello Mycroft. Yep, he is. Yes, he’s fine – no, I’m _not_ putting him on the phone right now, he’s exhausted – no, I don’t really give a toss about that, Mycroft, he doesn’t want to talk.’

Sherlock snorts; Joan raises his eyebrows at him over her shoulder, cocks her head, eyes wide, the edge of exasperated. _I know,_ Sherlock communicates with his eyebrows and she huffs.

‘I’ll tell him that, yes,’ she eventually says into the phone, after eighteen seconds of silence on her end during which Mycroft must have treated her to a rather tedious lecture, ‘but for now, can you please just _sod off?_ Goodnight,’ she hangs up on an undoubtedly outraged splutter from the other end while Sherlock chokes on his tea.

‘He’s worried,’ she comments, banging Sherlock on the back as he gasps for breath. ‘You really ought to have a chat with him at some point, you know?’

‘He’s just worried I’ll have another relapse,’ Sherlock mutters, falling back against the pillow. ‘He already knows, anyway.’

‘That’s not what I mean, Sherlock,’ Joan throws out, a little sternly and Sherlock huffs at the thought of sitting in his brother’s office and talking to him about this; always the supportive sibling, Mycroft, ready to catch Sherlock at the slightest slip and be hailed as the saviour of the hour for rescuing him once again.

Except Sherlock’s not even the one who got hurt this time, is he?

‘He should focus his meddling on the rest of the free world and leave me alone,’ he grumps on the duvet and Joan sighs, but doesn’t push; puts a hand to his belly and rubs it softly, as though she’s soothing a spitting cat. Sherlock doesn’t comment; can’t, at the casual intimacy of it, so doesn’t, but stores it quietly away in a little box inside his head, entitled _Things I’d Quite Like Joan Watson to Please Do Again, If She’s Willing._

‘We should get some sleep,’ Joan says; Sherlock blinks himself out of slumber and nods, starts to shuffle slowly (reluctantly) off the bed. He can take a hint.

‘No – wait, lie back down,’ Joan orders gently and Sherlock finds himself obeying before he’s even thought about it; winds up half-sprawled on the bed, staring at her stupidly. _That’s military blood for you._

‘It’s late,’ he offers, at a slight loss.

‘M’yes,’ Joan says with a relaxed, impudent grin, ‘and I’m asking you to stay.’

Sherlock processes that. Hm. Well. Interesting.

‘Alright…’ he tries, cautiously – wonders how to tell her that he hasn’t…he’s never… and Joan blinks back at him before bursting into startled laughter, eyes wide as caverns and looking faintly horrified.

‘No… not like… not _that,’_ she hastens to explain; Sherlock feels something inside him collapse with relief. It’s not – not that he doesn’t or that he couldn’t or that he wouldn’t _want_ to, at some point perhaps – but he _can’t_ , not yet and not after tonight.

‘Not where your mind’s clearly gone,’ Joan is chiding softly, kindly. ‘No, Sherlock – I mean, we can talk about that at some point if you want, of course we can, but right now I really don’t fancy the idea of you heading back out there so late. And, well…’ she dips her head, looking at the duvet with a suddenly pursed lip, ‘I don’t think you should be on your own right now.’

Well. No. Sherlock considers the alternatives; his bed back in Oxford, Mrs Hudson’s sofa, or even one of Mycroft’s London properties if he was truly desperate, all of which hold a pointed lack of Joan.  

Put like that, there’s really no choice at all.

‘I’ll fetch you something to sleep in,’ Joan offers the second he nods his assent to her, getting out of bed to hunt around the room while Sherlock makes a mental note to expand his studies on what makes Joan Watson so very _Joan_ ; what perfect blend of DNA created her as so incredibly unique. No-one else has ever invited him to sleep over, after all.

He ends up in a pair of loose pyjama bottoms that stop a fair few inches above the ankle (Harry’s, discarded) and a baggy t-shirt that declares itself _Florence + the Machine;_ one of Joan’s that he’s seen her wearing before and he tugs it down, curious, on his return from the bathroom.

‘Is this a book?’ he asks her, gesturing to the words stamped over his chest and Joan laughs, taking his carefully-folded clothes and putting them on her desk-chair. It’s not cruel, though; she’s just amused.

‘I’ll play you an album sometime,’ she promises, which frankly doesn’t make a lot more sense and yet despite everything else that happened tonight, at least Sherlock has this: the fact that he was able to make her laugh.

On a whim, he grasps for her hand; Joan gives what sounds like a contented, encouraging hum and squeezes it as she settles back down onto the bed and he slowly follows, watches the way she moves over to make ample room for him. It somehow feels different, compared with before - perhaps the effect of knowing that this is for the rest of the night, now - and Sherlock’s not quite sure what to do with his legs – legs, he decides, are a little awkward – but a few encouraging murmurs from Joan and they’re simply, carefully winding and tangling them together, two sets of pyjama bottoms making quirky patterns.

It’s nice. A bit of a squash, but pleasant; Joan, her back to the wall, is a soft shelf all the way down his left-hand side. A cushion, cheerfully wearing jumpers; a perfectly-imperfect teddy-bear. (Sherlock, though, wisely keeps this last thought to himself).

‘Hey,’ Joan rubs his leg with her foot. ‘You okay?’

Sherlock should say _Yes_ or _Maybe_ or even _Sort of, I feel safe with you, I always feel safe with you, it’s just…_ but all he manages is the vaguest nod and Joan’s responding flit of a smile seems understanding.

‘You’re the good,’ she says it again, states it like a declaration and Sherlock swallows as she plants a few kisses to his chin, feels rather spoilt by these simple cares.

He wants to disagree with her; wants to tell Joan what Mycroft has been shouting at him for some time now with increased frustration: that he’s selfish, that he’s upset Mummy, that he soaks up everything the world has to give him, stuffs his pockets with feathers of knowledge and damn the consequences, whether it’s an off-trail path in the woods or rehabilitation. People don’t tend to waste their affection on someone like him; if they’re not asking him to do their homework, they’re just telling him to piss off.

But then Joan didn’t tell him to piss off the first time they met, not even when he made his deductions about her life, the habit as simple to him as breathing – no, she just raised her eyebrows and simply shared her chocolate with him, unprompted, unasked. He remembers the way the girl thanked him tonight, voice meek but _there,_ taking a moment to reach through her own trauma towards him, to offer him her gentle gratitude.

He never even found out her name. The realisation tumbles down like a pile of falling stones in his stomach and he checks the time; it’s now technically morning and all he saw, all he stopped, now happened yesterday.

He hopes that they’ve finished questioning her. He hopes her Mum and Dad have come to take her home; he could tell, by her weight and the cut of her hair, the clothes she was wearing, that she is doted upon by loving parents, comes from a secure and affectionate homestead. He hopes the boy is still in handcuffs; that they cut into his wrists, that they leave marks.

He swallows; Joan murmurs to him, nonsense words of comfort, her voice as constant and soothing as a trickling lake and his forehead finds hers, his heart beating even, holding on. 

*

There are shadows and the sounds of crying and he wants to walk towards the source of the tears to try and _do_ something, but shapes he can't fathom are pinning him down, crawling up behind him and holding him back. He protests, demands they release him, _I’m not going, I’m not going, you can’t make me, let me go, let me help,_ but is dragged back into the dark, through corridors and doors, hands clawing for something to cling to but everything falling beyond his reach; when he looks back to get a glimpse at what’s pulling him, he _really_ wishes he hadn’t.

He wrenches himself out of the nightmare, gasping for breath, bolt upright in Joan’s bed, clawing at the covers and a second later Joan is up beside him, pulled from sleep by his frantic movement, shushing him softly, her hand on her shoulder, her voice in his ear.

‘It’s okay, it’s alright, you’re okay, just breathe, just breathe for me, that’s it. Just breathe. Look, have some water…’ She gestures to the cup on the bedside table and Sherlock nods, reaches for it. It’s blessedly cold and he drains it, selfishly, lets it wash out his system and purge out the shadows, water dripping down his chin. He wipes it away, turning to face Joan.

‘Sorry.’

‘Ssssh,’ Joan runs a hand through his hair, leaving steady trails; wipes the sweat from his forehead with her palm. ‘It’s fine, it’s all fine. You’re safe. She’s safe. Everything’s alright.’

Sherlock nods, letting her words fall over him like the cloaks he used to raid from his Uncle Rudy’s wardrobe as a child, much bigger than he could ever manage at that age, but still fastening them around his neck and strutting around relentlessly; ducking down to hide under them, marvelling at the way they covered his whole eight-year-old self like a blanket, sheltering him.

He tilts his head, nuzzles close, desperately, unashamedly seeking her mouth, a question on his own lips that Joan answers by closing the gap between them, a hand gently framing his face and guiding him in.  

They lie together for a while after that, watching the darkness beyond the blinds evolve to dim light that shyly starts to peek out, despite the winter chill. Somewhere around seven, Joan’s eyes start to droop; Sherlock finds himself following soon after, dozing dreamlessly.

When they do wake again, it’s late morning and they go for a walk along the Thames, arm-in-arm, eating bacon butties and drinking hot chocolate. There’s a sleepiness in the air, a weekend drift, the coldness of London during this time of year nipping at their clothes, and Sherlock loans Joan his scarf, deduces the people who scurry by, partly to keep his brain ticking over but mostly to amuse her. They watch the boats sailing past on the river and he quizzes her on the difference between patients with thyroid disorders and those without; she passes with flying colours, just as he knew she would.

He receives a text from Mycroft while they’re eating their breakfast on a bench and he can hear Joan’s chewing take on a slow, deliberately concentrated quality as he opens the message:

_I thought you would like to know that Thames Valley Police have been in touch - the assailant you restrained last night has been charged. M._

‘That’s good news,’ Joan comforts when Sherlock shows her the screen; his thumb hovers, unsure for a moment before he types out a reply.

_Thankyou for letting me know. S._

Joan takes advantage of his texting to ball up the rubbish and with a squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder, gets up to put it in the bin. Sherlock sends the message off to his brother and watches her, the open promise of her face, eyes like the spring, the cool breeze ruffling her hair like the flicker of a constant, faithful lighthouse, the data of her settling deep and unshakeable in his bones: that she would never harm him, never assault him, never hold him down and make him do things he didn’t want to do.

That, and Sherlock’s own simple knowledge that he would readily jump off a roof before he even considered doing the same.

 _I think I want to keep you,_ he decides, startling but true and mostly to cover the shock of such a realisation, he asks, ‘Did you… do you still want to do this London Dungeons…thing?’

Joan glances around, looking surprised. ‘Uh. Yes. If you want to?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock stands and after a beat, holds out his hand which Joan readily takes, a faint smile crossing her face. ‘Lead the way. I don't actually know where it is,’ he confesses, which makes Joan bark out a laugh. ‘No, really.’

It’s honest; the London Dungeons have never been relevant to him until now, not even with the promise of the macabre that simply seemed over-commercialised for the entertainment of the shrieking public, even from a distance. But now Joan has _asked_ him, Joan wants to take him and suddenly it holds all the relevance in the world.

‘Here,’ Joan nods, grinning, and tugs him in the direction of the nearest Underground station. Sherlock goes willingly, oddly excited and not feeling remotely frightened at the prospect of try-hard monsters in the dark.

Not when he has his brave medic beside him, anyway.

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those seeking more information about the events of the fic, the synopsis is here: 
> 
> Whilst investigating a string of drug-related offences on his own at a party in Oxford, Sherlock stumbles across a sexual assault taking place and immediately intervenes, subduing the perpetrator and getting help for the victim. However, he is deeply disturbed by what he's witnessed and heads to London to seek out Joan, who comforts him and helps him deal with it. Cuddling and snuggling ensues.


End file.
